There is a horrible song that we used to sing at City. It goes like this: "We're having a party when Fergie dies, jelly and ice cream when Fergie dies, pass the parcel when Fergie dies, bouncy castle when Fergie dies" to the tune of Tom Hark by the Piranhas.

Of course, we didn't really mean when Fergie dies. It was what we football fans call a metaphor. We meant when he retires. So being the humane soul I am (well, not to set a bad example for my kids), I changed the words to: "We're having a party when Fergie goes …"

And now he is going. Happy days! It was never really about Ronaldo or Rooney, Cantona or Van Persie, Beckham or Giggs. It was always about Fergie. He was the one we needed to root out.

Ferguson was a terrifying, puce-faced, hairdryer-breathed autocrat; a dictator of the highest order. He bullied referees. How many games were won in "Fergie time"? – including, ironically, the match at the end of last season that secured City their first premiership title. He bullied journalists and broadcasters. All those years he would not talk to the BBC because it had had the audacity to question his agent son's wheeler-dealering. He bullied players. Remember the boot he kicked at Beckham's eye?

He was also the greatest manager football has known (I've never enjoyed using the past tense so much) and the Manchester United trophy cabinet is sad proof of that. Pre-Ferguson City and United were virtually equals.

Fourteen years ago I spent three days on the road with Fergie, interviewing him. There is a photo of the two of us: me scowling, him grinning, the nearest you will ever see him to a Manchester City scarf.

This was our first exchange.

Ferguson: "Ahyastilltekinthemedicineson?"

Me: "Sorry?"

Him: "Ahyastilltekinthemedicineson?"

Me: "Eh?"

Him, grinning: "Wellyou'reacityfanaren'tya?"

I presumed I'd hate him. I didn't. What impressed me most was his ability to talk to people. He was flogging his memoirs at the time, and hundreds of people were lined up waiting to have their book signed. Often there was an obscure connection. "You won't remember me Alex, but my son's nephew once trained with Nicky Butt." Every time, you could see Fergie's mind working back over the years, and invariably getting there. Astonishing. He would have been brilliant in politics. And the fact that I didn't hate him made me hate him even more.

Now that he is going – unless this is his most evil double-bluff yet – we can all party, for whatever reason. Me, personally, I have got the Lagavulin out (hope Fergie would appreciate that) to toast 25 glorious years under Roberto Mancini.